Slimming World Success!

Back in January I took a step that changed my life.

At a size 24 I was bigger than I have ever been before and I was frightened to death of what was happening to me.

I ached all over, my feet and ankles caused me pain, my back caused me pain.

My skin and hair were awful, I had scalp psoriasis and my periods had pretty much stopped. I knew my body was in a terrible state but had no mental power to change it...

Until I stepped on to the scales at my local Slimming World group. While I'm not ready to disclose my starting weight I can give you a rough indication... It was upwards of 15 stones but less than 20 stones.

It suddenly dawned on me that my toxic relationship with food had to change before the worst happened - I suffered a heart attack.

At 28 years of ages that's a frightening prospect, but I was still convinced I wouldn't be able to pull it off and lose weight. All I could do was try my best, and that is what I vowed to do.

One week later, having followed the plan as best I could, I was faced with my first weigh in. I felt sick, I didn't want to see those numbers again, certainly didn't want to see anything higher. So I gritted my teeth and stepped on.

An 8lb loss!!! Over half a stone in a week! And I'd eaten well, good clean healthy food that was cooked from scratch and fresh. I was flabbergasted. Could I actually do this?!

The following week saw a 6.5lb loss and I celebrated with my first certificate, a loss of over 1 stone and Slimmer of the Week!  The following week also saw a 6.5lb loss and I celebrated losing 1 and a half stones in 3 weeks of healthy balanced eating. Surely it wouldn't carry on like that much longer?! I'd hit a wall?

My losses evened out and I began to average a 2lb per week loss, interspersed with the odd 3 or 4lb loss and the odd 0.5 or 1lb gain. Steady and balanced. I had the occasional wobble and hit a plateau for a few weeks but I was so determined to continue I couldn't stop. My husband had joined me in eating well and we planned menus and chose recipes we would enjoy preparing and eating. We took turns with cooking and supported each other when either one of us felt like packing it in.

And here I am now, 5 stones 1.5 pounds lighter in 7 months. I still have a way to go, but I'm getting there. I'm lighter, healthier and more confident. My skin is clearer and my psoriasis is gone! I no longer ache, my feet and ankles are fine, so is my back. I no longer suffer headaches and I can make sensible, responsible choices where meals and snacks are concerned. I've changed my attitude to food and it's fared me very well. Long may it continue. I was recently voted Woman of the Year for our Slimming World group and cried like a big baby. I've changed my hair and I can shop off the peg for the clothes I always longed to wear, instead of having to hide under clothing I disliked from specialist stores. I still have confidence issues, I'm still in the "fat friend" frame of mind but my friends are patient and loving and supportive. I will get there.

Then:

Now:

Then:

Now:

At the request of some lovely, encouraging friends I've decided to begin blogging again and start sharing some easy family recipes that can be introduced to the table without arousing suspicion! I'm more than happy to share the tasty food I eat and will crack on with posting these recipes as soon as I get the chance.

Thank you for taking the time to read this - I could have written for days but best to keep it simple otherwise you'll all end up depressed!

Loves...

Sian x

Have you ever had one of those days...?

Not a particularly bad one, but the kind of day where it feels like the universe has slipped off it's space hopper a little bit?!

That's my day today.

We are either due a full moon or somebody has laced the water supply with something trippy enough to turn the children into full on feral beasts! Not just mine... everybody's children! My facebook newsfeed is full of reports of grumpy grotbags. Work was incredibly challenging. The Boy Child was barely responsive this morning, albeit temporarily. The Banshee on the other hand! Full of the gloom and an emotional basketcase to boot! They say never to work with children or animals... I'd say there is a very fine line between the two and today distinguishing whether they are human or wild beasts has been difficult to say the least. Factor into the mix a very tired me (entirely my own fault!) and it's a recipe for disaster.

With a facey timeline full of despair and bizarre news stories about super cats and local misery and all sorts of glumness it's easy to become bogged down with the mood and become despondent and grumpy. But then I was reminded that, despite how real and relevant your trials and tribulations are to you personally, there is always somebody who is feeling it more than you, somebody whose lot is considerably worse than yours, a person who would probably trade their limbs to be in your position.
That's not to say that our issues are trivial and unimportant - they aren't. They're very valid and real to us. But as I've scrolled through the posts, a face keeps popping out at me, one story in particular, a very moving and inspirational account of one person's own battle with every adversity and his triumphs. That story is Stephen's Story.

On wednesday 14th May Stephen Sutton lost the fight against cancer aged just 19 years old. His story has reached millions od people worldwide and has been flying around the internet, raising an astonishing amount of money in the process. Perhaps more importantly, this young man from Staffordshire has raised an awareness in people - not just regarding the terminal disease that cut his life short, but a stark reminder that our lives are for living and, no matter how bad things may seem, the show must go on.
Stephen became a sensation, determined to cram as much happiness excitement and happiness into the time he had left. He drew up a bucket list and was supported by people the world over, the average Joe Bloggs and celebrities alike. In addition to fulfilling some of the ambitions on his own wish list, Stephen set out to raise £10,000 for teenagers with cancer, and as his final days approached the world watched as he exceeded his own target and generated a donation frenzy that has resulted in over £3.5 million raised at the last count.

I'll never be able to sum up in a paragraph or two the overall impact this guy has had on all who followed his journey but he's made me do something today that I don't do very often. I stopped to think.
Whilst sat in my boiling hot car, feeling a bit overwhelmed with how my day was going so far, it suddenly occurred to me that a family were grieving the loss of someone remarkable, irreplaceable, inspiring and devoted, someone who campaigned tirelessly and selflessly to make a difference in the lives of other teenagers in his position - despite knowing that he would never benefit physically from the efforts he'd made. As I thought about Stephen's family, my thoughts naturally turned to my own children. 10 years, 9 years and 5 years old. A happy life in the grand scheme of things. Healthy too. Surrounded by friends and a loving family, in possession of everything they need and a lot of the things they want.
So, I can't have a hot shower. The thermostatic cartridge is bust.
I can't have a MacDonald's because I need to lose weight.
I can't afford a holiday in the sunshine.
I can only gaze longingly at shiny new cars.
I don't get paid a lot.
I sometimes find my job stressful and unrewarding.
I wish I had more time with my husband, selfishly just us two.
I have to sit in a sweltering swimming pool while the kids have their lessons when I'd rather be at home in the garden.

But tonight, as I round up the troops ready for bed, I'll be able to plant a kiss on those rosebud lips, that sweet face and the reluctant cheek respectively, tell them how much I love them, wish them sweet dreams and safety from the biting bedbugs and ultimately hold them close to me... It might only be a moment, but it's enough. And Those are things Stephen's mother will likely long and ache for, today and forever.

For the tender touch and the unconditional love I receive from my children I will always be grateful. When I feel that the Gods aren't on my side and that my day could be going better I will remind myself that my day could be a lot different and I'll remember that there are more important things than parking spaces close to the leisure centre, running out of milk, children fighting amongst themselves, split ends, the spot on my chin, a non-functioning shower and a bank balance that has seen better days.

We have our kids, and they have us. And for as long as that lasts, I will be grateful.

Thank you Stephen for reminding me of what is and what is not important. For giving me perspective. You made an impact and the ripples have spread far and wide. 

If you've had one of those days, check Stephen's Story out. Count your blessings and thank your lucky stars for each and every one of them, just like I've done.

https://www.facebook.com/StephensStory?ref=ts&fref=ts
https://twitter.com/_StephensStory
https://www.justgiving.com/stephen-sutton-tct

I've said it before and I'll say it again...

This is gross. No two ways about it. But I've been a mother for 10+ years now and this is a big problem for children, and ourselves, especially as our self image takes a back seat and our immaculately presented children become our pride and joy - an outward indication that despite the chaos that generally follows us, our children have their shit together.

So why is it that our noses, of all things, have to throw a spanner into the already complicated mix?!

Our noses are a haven for all sorts. We sniff too hard, stuff gets stuck up there. Miniscule stuff. Particles of nasty. Sometimes those particles join forces and create the ultimate monster particle. Sometimes the monster stays hidden until it dehydrates and becomes an annoying burden. Sometimes the monster fancies a game of peek-a-boo and loiters on the cusp of the nostril, popping out at the most inopportune moment and embarrassing those around us. We, however, are usually completely unaware of this hide and seek escapade and only proper dickheads point out your partially hidden lodger. Often, said lodger will swing freely from the nostril on an invisible, undetectable thread, brazenly bidding "Hello!" to the world until your brain suddenly screams "LURKER ALERT! LEFT NOSTRIL! DANGLING!" To which you respond with a swift swipe, adhering the monster to your thumb like shit to a blanket... unable to surreptitiously dispose of him because the person you are talking to knows that a moment ago you had a massive greenie hanging out your nose, your hand and nose connected and now the greenie has gone. And any flicking/flappy motion is going to alert them to the fact that a bogey is smeared across your hand.

On a child these things are generally acceptable. Unless the nasal fluid is the colour of sage and an inch thick. Kids lick anything and at no point should snot be on the oral trajectory. Good God!

But for adults... and mothers in particular, our noses pose a hidden threat. I've said it numerous times, sneezing is the work of the devil.

It's main purpose is to remind women that actually, a little more pee could have been squeezed out on your last loo trip. ACHOO!!! SEE?!?!? I told you, Pissy McPisspants!
Applying mascara... that black, goopy liquid we smear across out eyelashes in an effort to looking eye-battingly beautifully alert rather than black-eyed, saggy and tired. If you don't execute the open-mouthed gape whilst applying aforementioned gloop you can bet your arse that your nose will mix things up a bit by throwing a sneeze out there. And we all know that if you sneeze with your eyes open they'll pop out, and nobody wants to be forcing eyeballs back into their face spaces at 7.30 am. So we just do it. We sneeze. And we print lashes all over our cheeks and eyelids, rendering the job null and void because instead of looking tired and worn out we now look like we popped a load of ecstasy and applied our mascara whilst on a trampoline with one hand behind our backs...
Then there is the eyebrow pluck. What the actual fuck?! There is always that one eyebrow hair that triggers and uncontrollable sneezing fit, followed by an unbearable tingle. But because the slug-brow look isn't becoming of many of us we put ourselves through this regimented horror show. And we ALWAYS believe we look better with blazing red eyebrows, a snotty nose and eyes like piss holes in the snow.
Of course we then have the dinner-dishing-up-time sneeze... The one where you're gathering plates stacked with piping hot, tasty food for your family, juggling them to the table and suddenly... right there... the sneeze. Its a choice between dropping every single plate and blowing kablooey, or aiming it at the one plate and hoping the Husband doesn't notice the addition of salty goodness you've prepared especially for him.
And finally, as we grow older, sneezing has the ability to render us incapacitated with no notice whatsoever. Whether your nasal explosion triggers a sudden sciatic attack in your leg and arse cheek causing you to limp like Quasimodo, or whether it inflames the trapped nerve in your back, hunching you over in agony, or whether it jars your neck, bending it at an unnatural angle - the recurring theme here is Quasimodo.

All this stemmed from the fact that I executed a spectacular sneeze in the car this morning. I'd been taunted by the elusive little bastard for about an hour...he tingled up and down, teasing me. Massively frustrating. Until I was at the traffic lights among the other cars and pedestrians, window down, humming along to Blur. Suddenly it was all systems go, which basically resulted in me making one helluva noise and stalling the car whilst desperately trying to round up any escapees with a furious sniff. Fringe in the eyes, slightly damp hands and a slightly damp seat - and my tissues buried deep in the pit of my handbag. The day had started so fucking well too!

Ahhh... the glory of being a woman, the glory of uncontrollable bodily functions and the general public.

Hobbies and such...

Earlier I mentioned that I didn't have many hobbies but on reflection it would appear I lied about that.
Like most parents, hobbies tend to take a backseat and family life takes precedence. As well it should.
But we need to make time to do the things we enjoy, even if it's snatching a few moments here and there.

Sewing
I am the proud yet somewhat neglectful owner of a sewing machine. It sits in a box, under a chair, gathering dust and the occasional daddy long legs spidey until inspiration strikes and one of those little fuckers runs over my hand as I heave the old girl out of her box. Talk about scream like a girl. I've sewed pretty bunting, the crotch of my brother's work trousers x200, pretty cushions, aprons, even a lovely bridal sash for a hen weekend but nothing of artistic significance. I entertained the idea of making clothing for The Banshee but I just don't know where to start. Until then the old girl will have to settle for little but pretty jobs. Apart from the crotches. Years of farts ingrained into the fabric, it's a wonder my fingertips are still in possession of my finger prints!

Doodling
Yes, I am sad enough to doodle. I'm sad enough to admit that my doodles have taken up massive amounts of my time and that plenty of friends and family are the owners of doodles commissioned especially for them... some even display them! I love music, and the lyrics to a song can draw on memories and bring feelings of such joy and elation. That is something that should be captured in any way possible. I'm not hugely artistic so it's not something I could ever fully embrace. Besides, the tribe of small humans that live with us steal any pen that isn't nailed down or locked up. The array of "K"'s scrawled discreetly on the wallpaper in the corner of the lounge and the rainbow splodges of Sharpie soaked into the bed sheets, and even on to skin at times, are testament to the fact that you cannot really be trusted with a pen until you're 21 or older. I was still chewing biro's with explosive outcomes at age 18. And having to reassure other adults that your kid isn't suffering from some frightening form of necrosis of the skin is tough... "Honestly Miss... what you're actually seeing there is the combination of orange, blue and green Sharpie. His ankle is fine!"

Music
Apart from a brief spell playing the Cello and an even briefer episode involving an ocarina I am sad to say I do not play an instrument. And, given the choice again, I'd have gone for the double bass anyway. At least I could swing one of those bastards at the bullies and cause some actual damage as opposed to having to explain why my cello was the proud owner of an enormous crack.
I took the piss out of my mother mercilessly for her taste in music when I was growing up. I listened to everything AFTER my mother's generation. Dance, garage, pop, indie... Anything that would wind her up. While she was blaring Black Sabbath I was trying to drown it out with a bit of Old Skool dance. I died a little inside every time my dad played Elvis on the rare occasion he was able to drop us at school and rock and roll was the most cringeworthy music on Earth. When they joined forces and raised the humiliation stakes by singing "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" at karaoke, I was a bit sick in my mouth.
Now, as an almost 30 year old I love Meatloaf and Black Sabbath. Reggae and Ska, Rock and Roll, Elvis, old Irish rebel songs, anything by The Beach Boys... I swoon with nostalgia and the memory of a childhood filled with music. Elvis is a fucking LEGEND and The Kinks are cooler than cool.
More importantly, I'm doing what my mum and dad did... Musically I live in the past. I was barely old enough to wipe my own bum when The Stone Roses took the stage at Spike Island and yet, without any shadow of doubt, they are my favourite band. The 90's saw a transition in the style of music and the messages delivered. The emergence of the indie scene was way beyond me age-wise but that's the era I find myself drawn to the most. And I wouldn't have it any other way. While most girls my age were listening to Steps I was listening to The Verve. Don't get me wrong, I swooned over Take That - still do to an extent! - Nick Carter of the BSB's was a hottie, and the Spice Girls were like nothing on Earth! But as it stands right now, the 90's, indie classics, modern indie rock and roll, rock music of the 60's and 70's, The Mod Scene, The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Elvis and, last but by no means least, The Stone Roses are where it's at. Ian, Reni, Mani and John move me in a way Mark Owen never could!
On my bucket list is the task of learning to play the guitar. Whether self taught or tutored... I don't care. I'll give it a bash!!! Or strum. Not sexually.

Reading
Ahhhh READING!!! My most treasured past time! I've always been a reader - you either love books or couldn't give a shit. I love books! Something scary, something romantic, something deep and meaningful, something completely and utterly fantastical - I don't care what it is. As a child it was Enid Blyton. As a young adult it was Point Horror, Goosebumps, Sweet Valley High, Babysitter's Club. Late teens led to the discovery of Stephen King and Dean Koontz - scared the living shit out of myself! Harry Potter came along and transported me back to a younger, more innocent time. Angus, Thongs and Full Frontal Snogging by the incredibly funny Louise Rennison was a guide to teenage life - accurate too! Adulthood led me to the chase and thrill of Jack Reacher via Lee Child, the ultimate devil's advocate in Jodi Picoult, the modern day fairy tales of Cecilia Ahern and the stark, brutal, frankness of death dissected by Patricia Cornwell and Kathy Reichs. Oh, and Fifty Shades of Grey. Phwoooaaar!
I'd stay awake all night to read given half the chance. Weekends were for reading. Any spare moment. Two, three books on the go.
Now I pretty much have to allot myself periods of time to sit and read. I.E - on the shitter.
You know you're a parent when you pretend to have the trots just to get through a few chapters. The convenience of a shower is completely blown out in favour of stewing in ones own filth in the bath for 90 minutes just to finish that book. Early nights become ridiculously late ones because reading by daylight is saved for Calpol bottles and homework books.

Excercise
Hahahahaha... Just kidding! Running and Bokwa are the extent of my exercise and I haven't done either in a while - I took the decision to leave zumba along with my sister and friend when it emerged that we were the only ones laughing at my "Back in a sec... my tena lady is stuck halfway down my thigh!" gag. And any mention of Wizard's Sleeves made the woman in front of us rotate her head 180 degrees and hiss "I am trying to concentrate! I want to be a Zumba instructor!"
Bully for you, love.
So Bokwa looked fun. It is and then it very much isn't. Those who have experienced the Bokwa burn will know. And as dainty as dancing the alphabet may sound, it is NOT. It's fucking beastly.
Running evokes a rage in me, a furious rage. I have just about mastered running to music without throwing in the odd dance move after a disastrous mishap involving a treadmill and The Black Eyed Peas. And a treadmill and Rudimental. There is a vast array of skid marks on my bedroom wall. From my feet, obviously.

Maybe this will become my new hobby. Blogging. If I ever manage to figure out how to navigate the dashboard and/or find a topic worth blogging about. When you consider that my children, my husband and my friends are generally my main source of entertainment that might not be a good thing...

Adios.

Time to prove I'm a modern mummy!

The boy child sat down to do his homework tonight (due in tomorrow, naturally!) and explained that he needed help planning a blog. I often pride myself on my creative sometimes mildly hilarious input where the kids' homework is concerned (when they actually do it) so I put on my smug face and remarked "Mummy used to blog!"

What I actually meant was that about a million years ago I made a few online diary entries that amounted to nothing more than the bored, occasionally delusional ramblings of a new mum who needed that something - anything - that provided the ever-elusive "Me Time". I soon discovered that blogging was not my forte and buried the log-in details deep, deep in my psyche. I think regression is probably the only thing that will enable the details to surface and, quite frankly, I'm not prepared to discover that I was a dock yard hooker or a doomed sailor in a previous life. Nope. THANKFULLY The Boy Child didn't ask me anymore about the subject but it got me thinking... I'm in the final year of my 20's, I don't have many hobbies and technology is evolving at an alarming rate - if I want to do this, I need to do it now. Before my brain deteriorates any further and the only thing I'm capable of is obliterating sweeties in Candy Crush Saga.

So here I am again. Trying to prove that, at the ripe old age of 29, I am still a hip, with-it mum. Or a sick mum. Whatever word replaced "cool" anyway! Preferably not sick... that sounds all kinds of wrong. Included in these posts will be general observations on life, mainly mine. If you are an absolute shit I may include you... but on the sly. With a code name. Like Shitty McGobshite. Should the shoe fit, feel free to wear it! The odd review may appear if I should stumble across an item that nobody could live without EVER, and a fair bit about the kids is likely to be included - The Boy Child, The Girl Child and The Banshee (also a girl child but 99% Banshee).

Things you should know:

• My mentality does not correlate with my age. Sometimes in a positive sense but mostly in the negative.
• I find myself hysterically funny. I'm usually the only one laughing. This is not unusual, I think it's healthy for adults to be capable of laughing at themselves.
• I am a member of Slimming World. It is highly likely that, at least once a week, you will be subjected to a bitch/boast post... dependent entirely on whether or not I lose weight. Weigh in is a Tuesday.
• I'm a big fan of The Stone Roses.
• I do not read newspapers.
• I do not listen to modern music. I'm stuck in a 90's time warp. And I don't mean Steps.
• If you don't find farts funny, we cannot be friends. Ever.
• My language can be fucking awful.
• I am desperately trying to cling to my youth.

So that's it. I wish I was a little more interesting. Or more of an enigma. But I haven't the time or the inclination to be either of those things. I'm not likely to bungee jump, or lead the world in a mission for global harmony. I'm far more likely to forget to pay for a school trip or succumb to road rage. Soz.